Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders (7 page)

Two hours later, I had fifteen new messages on my Facebook post. By midafternoon, I had twenty-six.

The Geekers were becoming united. Sort of.

Strengthening the bone, I guess. The leadership bone.

Here's the problem: I didn't really have anything to tell any of the twenty-six band people who contacted me. So I wrote back to all of them.
I'm putting together a plan of action. Stay tuned. This is the beginning.

Everybody was pretty cool, except Austin Bates, who wrote back to me,
Can't wait to hear about your big plan, fudge nuts.

Camille had to go to her grandma's house to help her weed and crap, so she wasn't available for counsel.

No, didn't hear a peep out of Shaver. Why would Shaver contact me?

I know people think Shaver had something to do with all this, but other than falling apart and getting arrested, he didn't.

Justin was totally silent. Remember how he texted me a couple days before with
Talk tomorrow?
He didn't contact me at all. I'm sure he saw all the stuff on Facebook. He's the class president and he stays on top of everyone's business. Dude seriously knows if someone's grandma in Ohio has a cold or whatever. He wouldn't miss this band news just because he'd fallen in love with a magical evil witch.

Kailey? How would I know her reaction, man?

Okay. Sure. You already know apparently. Yes, I did get a Facebook message from Baba Obi that said
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

No, sir, I don't mind if you use the facilities. Good luck to you. They aren't pretty.

Welcome back, Mr. Rodriguez. You were gone a long time.

Talked to who?

Yeah! You'd think the cops would do a better job cleaning their bathroom. It's like they hired Doris to be the janitor or something. Better laugh than cry.

Way to change the subject by the way. Who did you talk to?

Fine. I'll tell you about Tuesday.

Resort people really started flowing into the donut shop on Tuesday morning. It's been a pretty cool start to the season, right? But the weather Tuesday got summery, temperature in the 80s (not great for a fat kid who sweats like a hot dog). The rich people swarmed, man.
Two
Long Johns
! Is this whole wheat? Do you use local ingredients? Half dozen of the glazed—
Gore and I were on, but Dante had to call RC III to come help too. That's how crazy it was.

While all the richies shouted about donuts, Camille texted me like ten times. She kept suggesting different places where we could have the concert.
Wilson Beach on the sand, the playground next to the marina, softball field
(which is actually in use throughout Spunk River Days), etc
.
Then she asked questions like
Where are we going to practice? I drove up to school. It's locked. How can we get the sheet music? Music stands? How many songs do you think we all know by memory? Haven't marched or pepped in a long time.

At one point, even though customers were staring at me, I texted back
TOO BUSY. TALK LATER.

RC III and Gore glared at me. Gore said, “Stop looking at your phone. Too many customers. You're not acting like a professional.”

“Like a professional donut salesman? What's that?” I asked while I was pulling a jelly-filled donut for a blonde kid.

The kid's mom smiled.

“Quality in all we do,” Gore said.

“Hah,” RC III laughed. “That's what my dad says.”

“Quality in looking like a zombie,” I mumbled.

“I heard that,” Gore said. RC III glared at me and shook his head. But Gore laughed a little. Gore doesn't ever let rip like a roaring laugh, but she actually laughs a lot. It's just sort of hard to tell. Her black lipstick mouth doesn't really smile. She just makes a little exhale sound and her eyes crinkle.

Did you know she has purple eyes?

Well, blue-violet anyway.

Man, we worked and worked and worked.

Around 10:30, the store emptied out, largely because Dante didn't have enough donuts made and our shelves were all pretty much bare (except for just the regular, unfrosted cakes, which aren't that tasty).

I lifted my apron up and wiped sweat off my face.

“Not smart, man,” RC III said. “That's a dirty apron.”

“You have icing on your forehead,” Gore said.

I used my sweaty hand to wipe icing off my forehead. What a sticky mess. Donut work ain't easy work.

RC III made a face. “I'm going to go get you a wet towel,” he said. He disappeared in back.

Gore leaned over the counter and took a deep breath. She didn't wear a Dante's T-shirt like RC III and I did. She wore a lacy blouse with the sleeves rolled up and a Dante's apron over the top.

“Who keeps texting you?” she asked. “Your girlfriend?”

“I don't have a girlfriend,” I said.

“Camille,” she said. “Is that who keeps texting?”

“Yeah.”

“What does she want?”

“Jesus. Why do you care?” I spat.

“I don't know,” Gore said. She swallowed hard. “Never mind.”

RC III came from in back and tossed me a towel. He gave one to Gore too.

“No. Sorry,” I said, wiping my face. “She wants to know where we should practice and where we should have the concert next weekend because it has to be a place around Wilson Beach where Spunk River people will actually show up.”

“Go up to school,” RC III said. “Practice there.”

“It's locked up,” I said.

“No,” RC III said. “It's open in the afternoon for a couple hours.”

“Oh,” Gore said. Then she stood up straight. “Too bad you're such a jerk.”

“I'm not a jerk,” I said.

“No, dude! You a real ass to her,” RC III said, pointing at Gore.

“I am?” I asked.

“You know there's a ballroom in my house?” Gore said.

Yeah. Gore lives in that giant Victorian place about two blocks up shore from Wilson Beach. Twin Cities richies used to build mansions instead of jamming themselves into little cabins and resorts.

Yes, sir. It's a cool place. Scary. Which is appropriate. I mean, that sort of adds to her legend, you know? Legend of the murder-crazed girl in the haunted house.

“Oh?” I said.

“So if you weren't such a jerk, I'd let you practice there. Dad isn't home this week.”

“Wow. Okay. That's really, really nice of you,” I said.

“I didn't offer anything, you jerk,” Gore said. Then she went in back.

“Why are you so mean to her, man?” RC III said. “It's like you never learned common manners. Why would you pick on that girl?”

I paused for a second. “Ow,” I said.

“Yeah, ow, man,” RC III said.

Honestly, I didn't know I could be mean to anyone.

“Holy balls. I'm really, really sorry,” I said to RC III.

“Don't tell me, dude.”

“Right,” I said. Then I ran outside and picked a bunch of dandelions off the strip between the sidewalk and the street. When Gore returned from in back, I handed her the bouquet.

She looked down at them. “Okay,” she said.

“These are yours, okay, because I'm really, really sorry I'm a jerk.”

“Nobody has ever given me flowers,” Gore said.

“Well, they're yours.”

Then Gore said really quietly, almost a whisper, “Your band can practice in our ballroom if you need to. I still think you're kind of a jerk though, even if I like you for no apparent reason.”

“I wouldn't like you if I were her,” RC III said to me.

“I don't like you,” Gore said to RC III.

He smiled really big. “Come on. Yes, you do. You like me.”

“Okay,” Gore said. “I like you, but I don't want to because you're one of them.”

“Are you racist?” I whispered.

“No, you dick,” Gore shot back. “Robert is an athlete.”

“She's an activity-ist,” RC III said. “Prejudiced based on how a person spends his free time.”

“Sports are dumb,” Gore nodded. “And they attract bad people.”

RC III was totally like…I think the word is tickled. He giggled like a little girl. Gore smiled back at him, sort of giggled too. They'd just worked one shift alone together, but Gore and RC III were clearly buddies. Talk about an odd couple.

Just then, a couple big families came cruising into the shop. “Do you have any gluten-free donuts?” a super skinny woman in sunglasses asked.

Gore smiled and said, “No, but we make all our products with extra, extra care.”

“Oh,” the woman said. “Good.”

Right before close, Gore gave me her home phone number, said to call if we decided to use her house.

“I really appreciate it,” I said.

“Thanks for the dandelions,” she said quietly.

I called Camille before Dante locked up. Of course, she was a little skeptical about organizing a band practice at Gore's house. “I don't know. Will anyone go over there?” she asked.

I was planning to go directly home so I could eat something healthy and fast (no donuts for my third straight day of work!) and then do my grandpa's workout. But RC III was waiting for me when I left the shop. He sat drinking a chocolate milk out on the picnic table under Dante's canopy.

“Dude, you want to see what the cheerleaders are doing?”

“Where?”

“Up at school. Bet they're there again.”

“You saw them?

“Heard them. Yesterday. About this time.”

Man, I wanted to go home. I was so sticky and gross and I wanted to work out. But I felt sort of honored that RC III was taking an interest in my business. Know what I mean?

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“I don't know. I just heard the music, man. Let's go check it out. I'll give you a ride home after.”

Five minutes later, we (both of us sticky) rolled into the MLAHS parking lot in RC III's black Honda. Sure enough, Kailey's Buick was out there in the lot. Janessa's SUV. A bunch of other cars were out there too. Just seeing those cars sent a shock of fear through me.

“Let's go in,” RC III said.

“No,” I said. “I don't want to—I don't need to know what's up.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I…I don't want them to see me spying,” I said.

“We'll just walk back through the commons, head to the locker room. I can say I'm picking up some laundry from my locker if anyone asks. You know you want to see this.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

I don't know why I was so freaked out by the notion that Kailey, Janessa, and Emily Yu might see me poking around. But I was. Terrified.

I followed RC III through the doors. My heart blasted. We entered the commons. The cheerleaders weren't in there. But then there was this thumping bass blasting through the gym doors and RC III just walked right over and opened a door right up, looked right in. I looked in under his arm and there they were, the dance team in short shorts and tiny T-shirts. And they were all humping and bumping to this…like, club music.

“What is this, the stripper team?” RC III asked.

“What? What?” I said. I jammed my head under his armpit for a better view.

Janessa, while she spun, saw us in the door. She stopped and waved at RC III. Then this tight-skirted, giant-haired, big-boobed blonde lady I'd never seen before barked, “What do you boys think you are doing?” She had this thick Southern accent.

“Nothing, ma'am. Just heard the music,” RC III replied.

“This is a closed practice, young man,” she said.

Kailey smiled at RC III. Then she saw me and her smile faded fast.

Emily mouthed “Chunk?” in this really ugly way that made me boil.

I pushed past RC III and said, “Hi, ladies!”

“Get your big butt right back out that door,” the blonde-haired woman cried. She ran toward us and her body just bounced in this awesome way, sir. Like beautiful. Like I can visualize it in slow motion.

RC III grabbed the back of my donut shirt and pulled me through into the commons. The door slammed in our faces.

“Who the hell was that woman?” I asked.

“Their coach,” RC III said.

“Wow. She's…she's pretty hot,” I said.

“Don't think with your groin, man. She's your enemy.”

“Okay, but she's the hottest mom I've ever seen.”

“I bet she's expensive.”

His statement confused me because I was all lit up by her in a weird way. “What?” I whispered, “You think she's a prostitute?”

“Dude.” RC III spoke slowly to me like I'm an idiot, which I am. “She's the cheerleader's new coach and she's probably the reason the school can't afford your band.”

“Oh,” I said. The truth of the matter dawned on me. “The school replaced Shaver with her.”

RC III nodded. “Yeah, man. Seems like it.”

“She's…she's beautiful.”

“Dude! You're a horndog! She's the enemy!”

A minute later, we were back in RC III's car. He pulled out of the lot. I thought about Big Boobs. The buzz I got from her began to wear off. “That woman replaced Shaver, but I thought I loved her,” I whispered.

“Candy,” RC III said. “She's a glazed donut, dude.”

“She's the enemy,” I said. “She took band.”

“Don't let them fool you,” RC III nodded.

“She's the enemy,” I repeated. “What's wrong with me?”

“Same thing that's wrong with most people,” RC III said.

“I want all the donuts in my mouth no matter how bad they are for me.”

We drove for a while in silence. Then RC III said, “I don't know about this concert thing you guys want to do. Takes too much planning. Seems like you should be more aggressive anyway. You should get in the cheerleaders' faces a little more. Make more of a public display. Disrupt their shit a little.”

“Really? How?” I asked.

“I don't know. Just think about it.”

We got to my house. “Okay. But we need to raise some cash for camp.”

“Whatever you think, dude. See you tomorrow,” RC III said. Then he fist-bumped me and I felt pretty damn cool, sir. RC III is far more awesome than Justin Cornell.

Grandpa was waiting for me at the door, already wearing his compaction shorts. (Yes, RC III saw him.) “Look at you, fancy pants. Getting dropped off by the school quarterback in his fancy-pants car.”

“I think it's a Honda Civic.”

“It's a fancy-pants Civic.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Time for the circuit of hell.”

And while Grandpa killed me with the burpees and crap, I thought it might be nice to have some club music thumping to help me keep my energy up. I thought,
Wish
that
big-boobed blonde lady were barking at me.
Wish
Kailey
were
here
dancing—

I have problems, sir. I think cheerleaders are hot. Even mom-aged cheerleaders who bark like wild dogs. I'm a glazed donut addict.

When we finished, Dad was home, sitting at the dinner table, although there was no dinner yet made.

“What are you two up to?” he asked.

Sweat soaked my donut shirt and my stretchy pants. (I hadn't changed.) “Nothing,” I said.

“Oh, no,” he said. “You're doing something.”

I need something to drink, Mr. Rodriguez. I'm sorry. I don't want to be a pain in the ass.

Unsweetened iced tea or a glass of water. Nothing with sugar, okay?